


Two and a Third

by coolant



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25811323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolant/pseuds/coolant
Summary: Kim was briefly with Harry the night he died.(Kim and Jean cope with a sudden loss.)
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi, Kim Kitsuragi/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Two and a Third

**Author's Note:**

> Providing the warning I do not know how to tag- this fic contains a scene where certain detectives stumble upon a loved one’s dead body.
> 
> But after, there’s sex.

Kim was briefly with Harry the night he died. 

The two were at Kim’s place reviewing notes for their case over containers of takeout. This was a common occurrence now. They spent most of their time together, between work and pleasure. At first, Kim worried he’d get sick of Harry. But as his recovery progressed, Harry had gotten more practiced in respecting Kim’s boundaries, giving him space. It was suspiciously easy to be around him. 

Around 10 o-clock Harry yawned loudly, scratching the back of his head, and declared they should wrap it up for the night. 

Kim could have asked him to stay the night, but he didn’t. He felt like having a night alone, which Harry understood without Kim having to say it. Sometimes Kim liked his quiet, and even while asleep Harry was not a quiet man. Harry stood in the doorway of Kim’s apartment and leaned down, hoping for a kiss.

“G’night Kim.” He said softly. With a contented huff Kim kissed him, gentle and sweet.

“Goodnight, Harry.” Kim replied. Harry smiled, his eyes squeezing up into two half moons, skin crinkling.

Kim went to bed not long after. He thought a little of the case and what he would have for breakfast in the morning, then fell asleep. 

The coroner at the 41st estimated Harry had experienced a cardiac event about 3-6 hours after he’d left Kim’s apartment. 

—

When Kim arrived at the precinct that morning, Harry was already late, but only by a few minutes. Not unusual. By noon, Kim knew something was wrong. Normally Harry’s delays, excused or not, were accompanied by a call to inform the precinct where he was.

Jean always got worked up whenever Harry was a no-show, grumbling about “fucking professionalism” and how Harry lacked it. When Kim said he was going to check on Harry at his apartment, Jean volunteered to accompany him. It was clear from Jean’s attitude he was expecting Harry to have relapsed and passed out. He was expecting a fight. Looking forward to it, even.

While Jean was already reveling in the argument that had yet to happen, Kim quietly combed through the previous evening, searching for a hint of trouble in Harry’s demeanor. But he found none. He’d been relaxed. He’d been happy. 

A feeling in the stairway to Harry’s flat told Kim something was horribly wrong. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Kim took the stairs two at a time.

“Shit, Kitsuragi. What’s the hurry? He’s not going anywhere.”

Kim knocked three times, polite and clear. No response. He took a breath. Three more knocks. 

“Harry? Are you alright?” Kim called, his voice not yet betraying the anxiety spiking in his gut. Jean grunted in annoyance and banged on the door with a fist.

“Hey, shitkid, it’s the cops. Open up.” Still, no response. Kim and Jean shared a look as both their pulses quickened.

“I have a key.” Kim said, tapping his pockets to find the right one. As he slid the key into the lock he called, “Harry, we’re coming in.”

An eerily quiet apartment greated. A small kitchenette and a living room attached. A book shelf and a couch with a man-shaped lump on it.

“Harry?” Kim was unable to keep the urgency from his voice, now. He reached the couch before Jean and stood, hovering in front of it. 

Harry sat on the couch, leaning on one of the arms, head tilted back and eyes half open. His skin was a greyish blue. Kim’s hand shook almost imperceptibly as he pressed two fingers to Harry’s neck, checking for a pulse. Cold skin. Nothing.

Kim doesn’t remember much of what happened next. He used Harry’s phone to call the 41st and request they send an officer to process the scene, preferably not from the MCU. He presumed the death was accidental, but requested a cursory crime scene sweep, just in case.

Kim and Jean stood outside Harry’s building while they waited for the officer to arrive. Both hoped they would not be asked to re-enter Harry’s flat. Jean smoked and Kim just stood, arms crossed, leaned against the brick.

“What the fuck?” Jean kept murmuring between drags. His eyes watered but he wouldn’t let his face contort enough to cry. Then turning to ask Kim: “Was he using again?” 

“No.” Kim said flatly, inexplicably resenting the implication he would know Harry was using. “Not that I’m aware of.” Kim couldn’t see but Jean watched him for a moment, thinking, then sniffed.

“Coulda been all that shit he put his body through, catching up to him.” Jean’s voice was dry with bitterness. 

“That’s very likely.” Kim found it was difficult to move his eyes around his surroundings. They stayed glued to a non-descript portion of the pavement. Jean’s face softened a little. He ashed his cigarette.

“Kitsuragi, you can take the day if you want.”

Kim glanced towards him briefly. “Why?”

“Because you just _found your partner’s dead body.”_

“You found him, too. And he was your partner the longest.” His voice was an eerie monotone.

“Yeah and he was your partner _last.”_ Jean shifted his feet, gesturing with his cigarette. “You can take the day.”

“I’m fine.” Kim said. His face stayed unnaturally still. 

“Ok, sure, but-“

“Here’s the CSI.” Kim interrupted and straightened himself out, walking towards the approaching motor-carriage. He greeted the single officer who’d been stuck with the task and handed off the keys, reciting Harry’s apartment floor and number. Jean watched him with a furrowed brow. 

Kim strode to the door to his Kineema and turned to look at Jean, still lingering by the building. “Coming, Officer?” The sun glinted off his glasses.

“Yeah, sure.” Jean stomped out his cigarette. From the back seat of the Kineema, Jean tried to catch Kim’s eye in the rear view mirror. His eyebrows sat in a flat line with only the mildest wrinkle of a frown between them.

  
  


—

The ensuing preparations were startlingly routine for the officers of the 41st. It was not the first time they buried a brother, nor would it be the last. 

Kim sat at his desk where his eyes have been glazing over the same two lines of paperwork for a half hour. Judit approached his desk cautiously. 

“Lieutenant.” She said softly, clutching a slip of paper in her hand. Kim cleared his throat, attention shifting to Judit and her paper. “This is the funérarium the RCM uses.”

“Thank you.” Kim looked down at the paper. He had no idea what to do with it- it was useless to him.

“They asked for clothes, for him.” She said gently. Kim stared. “Jean said you had a key.”

“Right.” Kim pocketed the paper. Didn't want to bury the man in rumpled, two day old clothes. “Thank you, Judit.” She smiled sadly and reached out and squeezed Kim’s shoulder before he could pull away.

“Jean said you should take care of that now. Said you were done for the day.”

“Did he now?”

“Yeah, I did.” Said Jean, walking up behind her with a ring of keys between his fingers. “Got these from the officer who processed the scene. Didn’t stay there long.”

Kim took the keys and they felt cold in his hand. The familiar weight was comforting.

“You’re welcome.” Said Jean, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Now get out of here.”

—

The garish green of the crocodile boots felt too bright. Like an exposed lightbulb. Kim placed them carefully in an old grocery bag, then stood to view the top of the closet.

The clothes hanging there were all various garish shades and patterns. Silk and polyester and even some wool in the trousers section. Kim had helped organize this closet around a year ago. He lost count of how many articles they purged before settling on the current selection. 

Kim came upon a new tenant of the closet. Another blazer, corduroy, of all things, and a truly horrid shade of rusty orange. He touched the lapel, brushing the with the pad of his thumb. 

Sometimes Harry would show up to the precinct with a new blazer or jacket. He’d taken to collecting his favorite “pieces,” as he called them, from second hand shops. Kim supposed that if one addiction need be replaced by another, blazers for booze wasn’t bad.

No one was in the room with him, but he was still hesitant to smile; the hints of one tugged at his lips. He let out a slow breath through his nose and pulled the blazer from the hanger, folding it neatly into the bag with the boots. Next, he chose a pair of pants, flared at the ankle like all of Harry’s seemed to be, and a simple (yet somehow _still_ ostentatious) button-up shirt.

Kim paused at the ties. They were all terrible. One monstrosity was decorated entirely with images of a purple cartoon cat. Kim couldn’t help but laugh. _Who would wear this?_

Kim’s smile slowly faded as he thumbed through the rest of the ties. He settled on one with abstract strokes that mimicked watercolors. There was a bit of orange in it, so it went with the jacket. He made sure each article was folded neatly in his shopping bag.

Leaving the bedroom, Kim scanned the living room and kitchen. His eyes unwittingly settled on the ratty old couch. It’s cushions were flipped to hide splits in the fabric. There was an imprint on one of the seats where a heavy body used to sit. Kim’s chest felt hollow. He momentarily forgot how to breathe. 

Kim exited the apartment, locking the door with care. While withdrawing the key, he noticed his hand was shaking. He paused and watched the traitorous tremor pass, then slipped the keys back into his pocket. Outside, he placed the bag on the floor of his Kineema. As he drove, his hands slowly became steady again.

—  
  


The director of the funérarium saw Kim enter and rushed over to greet him. He was a balding man, short with a frog-like face. 

“Hello, sir.” Said Kim, holding up his bag of clothes. “I brought- for Mr. Du Bois-“ Kim ponders what to call what he’d brought. Harry’s clothes? His _burial_ clothes? When Kim’s voice faltered, the man gratefully took the bag. 

“Why thank you, monsieur, for getting back to us so quickly.” The director said gently. Froggy as his face was, he had a kind smile. “We can have Mr. Du Bois dressed within the half hour, if you’d like to stay and visit-?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Kim said curtly. Then, softer, “Thank you.” The small man nodded his head in understanding.

“Very well. We will have everything ready for the service tomorrow, then.”

“Yes. Tomorrow, then.” Kim’s face felt numb. He bid the man farewell and returned to his Kineema. His ears were ringing.

Once inside, Kim made the mistake of glancing at his rear-view mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He wondered why. He hadn’t cried at all.

Twisting the ignition, Kim shifted into to drive. He drove along highways and side streets of Jamrock until the sun hung low in the sky. When he returned home that night, he smoked his daily cigarette in his bedroom, unlit but for the streetlights outside. He laid down to sleep. He could barely smell the scent of chestnuts.

—

The funeral itself was a brief affair. In attendance were the members of the 41st Major Crimes Unit and Lena, the Cryptozoologist’s Wife, accompanied by her husband. Kim, like the others, wore his proper RCM uniform, uncomfortably starched. The last time he’d worn it had also been for a funeral.

There would be no gathering after the burial- Harry had no money and the RCM only paid for the barest essentials. The mourners lingered a few minutes, looking down at the pinewood casket in a shallow hole. Lena sniffled into a handkerchief, remarking what a nice man Harry was. Her husband awkwardly soothed her by rubbing her shoulders. One by one the mourners left, till only Jean and Kim remained. 

“Is, uh... Is it ok if we get to work?” The groundskeeper asked, looking awkwardly at Kim and he approached with his digging equipment. They were going to do the burying part, now.

“Yes.” Said Kim hoarsely, backing up to stand beneath a nearby tree. He wanted to watch them do it- watch the box get covered in dirt. So he did, taking out a cigarette and lighting it as he watched the men begin their work.

Jean watched Kim from across the grave, noticed the unfocused glaze of his eyes. Kim seemed intent on not having any outward reactions regarding Harry’s sudden death. It made Jean sad to see, which was strange. He’d always hated how emotional Harry was, so unable to keep his shit locked down that it became everyone else’s problem. And then there was Kim. Jean could tell he was wound tighter than usual because his movements were even more controlled. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle on his uniform.

 _Fuck it._ Thought Jean. He shortened the gap between them, standing beside Kim under the tree.

“Hanging in there, Kitsuragi?” He asked, lighting up a cigarette of his own, thinking it might cut the tension to have that in common. Kim’s cheek twitched in an attempt at a polite smile.

“Yes.” He didn’t look away from the grave slowly filling with dirt. “Are you?”

“Yeah, fuck. Like always.” Jean ran a hand through his hair. Kim huffed. They had that stalwart sense of duty in common, too; knowing they can’t fall apart without screwing a lot of other people up. Can’t lose your shit when so many depend on you.

Kim was vaguely aware Jean seemed hesitant to ask something else, but he was too focused on the shovels. He remembered it was Harry in that pit. He remembered the last time they’d kissed.

“So I’ve been meaning to ask…” Kim glanced toward Jean without moving his head. “How soon after getting to the 41st did the two of you…” Jean had started strong but trailed off, the rest of the sentence lodged in his throat. His expression was without judgment. It might have even softened from the grief-stricken scowl he’d worn the whole day. Realization tickled Kim’s ears. _Of course Jean knew._ Kim looked away from him and cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Khm. A few months. The end of that summer.” Kim took another drag, holding the rest of his body very still. Jean nodded, scuffing the grass with the toe of his shoe. His eyes had gotten waterier but his face stayed screwed into a scowl. He fidgeted; he was uncomfortable. Beneath his unkempt beard, a blush colored his cheeks. Kim’s mouth felt dry.

“Did…” Kim considered his phrasing. “Did you and he-”

“Yeah. Sometimes. It is- was-” Jean wiped some hair from his forehead. “Complicated.” He muttered a few curses under his breath. 

Kim pondered telling Jean he was sorry- maybe for asking about their history, or for not knowing Harry made a habit of fucking his partners. He did neither.

“I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to get into it with him. Didn’t want to _explain_ it all.” Jean put his hands in his pockets. “Besides, things were messed up for months before. We weren’t, really- he was being such an _asshole-”_ He stopped himself. “What I mean is, I wasn’t mad at you two. I was mad at him, but not you.”

Jean took a drag and let out a heavy sigh. Kim thought about how it must have looked to Jean, he and Harry together. Had anyone else from the precinct noticed? Jean continued.

“He seemed good, with you around.” Jean’s shoulders slumped with the weight of this. He worried that he could have done something to prevent Harry’s various meltdowns. He worried if he caused them or made them worse. He worried that he wasn’t enough as a friend, or a college, or whatever else. He was furious at how Harry hurt him, and at how he was now too tired to be angry anymore. Jean sniffed.

“He felt guilty for the way he treated you.” Kim said evenly. His cigarette was nearing its filter. “He wanted to make amends. He just couldn’t figure out how.” Remembering Harry thinking aloud to him of how he could mend things with Jean made Kim’s throat burn. He swallowed.

“Heh. Shit.” Jean rubbed his face. Palpable waves of anger and sorrow rolled off him. He crossed his arms, mumbling, “Asshole.” Kim remained silent, savouring the last drag of his cigarette before flicking the butt to the ground.

“Yes. He was.” Kim’s eyes smiled but his lips didn’t follow. For a moment, they both stared out at the lawn of the graveyard, watching the groundskeepers haul soil.

“Fuck.” Jean fidgeted again and checked his watch. “It’s only 3’o-clock. I can’t go home yet. And I sure as shit can’t stay here.” He scanned the horizon. The skin around his eyes was purple and red. It aged him a little.

“I’m heading back to the precinct when this is done.” Kim leaned his back against the tree behind them.

“What?” Jean balked. “Not a chance. I won’t let that happen.”

“Did you get a promotion while I wasn’t looking?” Kim managed to sound wry. Jean managed a barely visible smirk.

“Yeah, right now, asshole! Come on. We’re getting a drink. I’ll pay.”

“I don’t really drink.”

“Yeah, well, if there were ever a time to pretend-” Jean gestured at their surroundings. “Come on. I can’t drink alone.” There was a note of vulnerability in his voice at the end. He really didn’t want to be alone. This was also the most insistent Jean had ever been with Kim. He normally gave the lieutenant a wide berth. Now he was desperate to not be left alone with his thoughts and memories and sorrow. Kim understood. 

He supposed one drink couldn’t hurt.

—

“Thanks.” Jean said, both to the bartender serving their drinks and to Kim. “I know toasting a dead alcoholic seems insensitive.” Kim exhaled, shrugging, looking into the pint of beer. He didn’t really like beer.

“It seems like something he’d encourage.” Kim said, finally taking a swig from the pint. It was bitter; Kim could barely taste it. Jean chuckled. The mood had lightened some since leaving the cemetery, but the bar was still depressing. There were very few patrons and none of them looked very happy to be there. It was a fitting place to toast their similarly maudlin friend.

He was their friend, wasn't he? Colleague was too formal, lover too dramatic. Their _friend_ in common.

Jean tilted his glass toward Kim’s solemnly.

“To Harry?” 

“To Harry.” Kim tapped his glass against Jean’s and they both drank deeply. Kim looked down at his hands, resting on the bar table next to his glass.

The information Kim had learned at the gravesite was finally sinking in. Harry and Jean had been involved. Involved enough to make things “complicated.” So, was Jean a homo-sexual? Or did Harry simply seduce whoever was in his proximity long enough? Judging by Jean’s awkward posture, Kim guessed even _he_ didn’t know the answer.

“You really don’t think he was using?” Jean scratched his beard. It wasn’t that Jean didn’t believe Kim, but that he didn’t believe Harry could go any length of time without relapsing. It made Kim feel sad.

“No.” Kim traced a drop of condensation on his glass. “We were together a lot. I would have noticed.”

Kim felt uncomfortable disclosing even this to Jean. But he supposed that was what he got for having an affair with a coworker. He took another long drink from his beer.

“What did he _do_ when he wasn’t drinking?” Jean’s curiosity was genuine. He tried to remember the man he knew before the peak of his alcoholism, but it was all a blur. Even before Harry died, Jean had missed him.

“I wasn’t with him every waking moment.” Kim hoped this sounded like a joke and not defensive. He shrugged. “He watched his avant-garde art films. Read a lot. He was researching the physics of catapults, last time we spoke.”

“What a lunatic.” Jean said fondly. Kim smiled a little. They both took another drink. 

“What did you two do together?” Jean asked, then pulled his mouth shut into a flat line. He’d asked too honest of a question. Kim paused and Jean sat up in his chair. “Sorry, that was a weird fucking question to ask.” Kim drained his drink.

“What did the two of _you_ do together?” Kim kept his face smooth, voice perfectly nonchalant. Jean opened then closed his mouth. “It was probably very similar.” 

Kim ordered another drink. Bourbon, this time. Jean moved on to a second pint of beer. Kim avoided thinking more about the time he and Harry shared together. It had been foolish, but it had made him a little happy. He couldn’t really hide his feelings from Harry, and though it should have been insufferable, he found it liberating to just give in.

Kim looked over at Jean who was staring into space, clutching loosely onto his pint glass. Harry probably used his can-opener technique on Jean, too. Picked him apart, piece by piece, to see what made him tick, out of curiosity or cruelty. Harry liked to know things totally; to understand them inside and out. Which made him an incredible detective and a terrifying date.

“What was he like, before Martenaise?” Kim asked, swirling the bourbon around in his glass. It was pretty awful stuff. Jean laughed, stroking his beard.

“He was more of a dick. It was easier to piss him off.” Jean shrugged. “He’s the first guy I ever met who was able to drink a personality trait into oblivion. He cared still, though. About the job. About C-Wing. Maybe too much.” Jean took another drink. “That last promotion… He worked hard to get it. I should have given him more shit for the hours he was pulling.”

“He probably wouldn’t have listened.” Kim noted with a grim smile. Jean nodded. “He didn’t listen to me, either. I just happened to meet him after major brain trauma.”

Jean cracked a smile again, resting his chin on his fist. “Lucky you.”

Kim could see sadness in Jean’s face this time. The beer was sloshing his emotions loose. Jean probably had more memories of Harry, ones not revolving around his alcoholism. But he couldn’t remember them now, after a year or so of chaos.

They drank in silence for a while. Both wondered how long the silence would last, but neither felt the need to fill it. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but a tired one.

Kim finally began to feel drunk. He sipped from his drink lazily. The booze was softening his sorrow, but not masking it. Somewhere along the way Jean had rolled up his shirt sleeves. Kim could see the muscle of his forearm twitch as he lifted the glass to his mouth.

“How did it start? Between the two of you.” Kim asked finally. His thoughts drifted away from Harry and the space in the room where his presence once was, and landed on Jean. They had to. It hurt too much, otherwise.

“Khm, uh.” Jean straitened in his chair again. “We got in a fight. It got heated, and then just… spiraled out of control.”

It was an evocative image, all that testosterone and machismo, exploding. Kim licked his lips.

“Had you been with a man before him?” Kim asked this so casually, as if he were asking Jean about what brand of liquor he preferred. The beer was eroding at Jean’s embarrassment and awkwardness. Now he seemed at peace with it, shoulders relaxed.

“No.” Jean met his gaze. On top of the sorrow there was a note of unmasked desire in Jean’s eyes. Thinking about memories of Harry, most likely. Or, he was just looking at Kim. “Not before or since.”

Kim held Jean’s eye as he shot the rest of his drink.

“Would you like to get out of here?”

—

They walked in silence to Kim’s apartment. Jean let Kim choose the bar, so Kim picked one near his flat. He had gone intending to get drunk and wouldn’t dare object his Kineema to said drunkenness.

Kim didn’t even welcome Jean inside, just pulled the collar of his shirt close and kissed him. Kim had never thought about kissing Jean before today. Hadn’t even wondered if he wasn’t hetero-sexual. Though, he’d felt the same way about Harry. 

Kim hadn’t entertained the possibility of Harry being homo-sexual. Not until Harry was seated on his couch, showing him a book on aerostatics he’d found. Harry’s face was alight with excitement as he pointed out the rare photographs of early aerostatic prototypes. He recited the model names with practiced precision. Kim realized Harry learned all these facts just to talk to him more. A sudden rush of tenderness made Kim press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

He would never forget the startled but pleased gasp, or the widening of Harry’s eyes before he tossed the book on the floor and kissed him back. With singular focus, Harry sucked the breath out of Kim’s lungs till he was sweating, panting, on fire but fully clothed. Harry loved the way he did everything else; messily, gratefully, desperately.

Kim supposed Jean was attractive. He had a serious look about him that made him broodingly handsome- lots of furrowing his brow and flexing his jaw. He likely grew his beard to hide the pockmarks, but it grew nice and thick. Kim thought he could use a haircut to stop it from falling in his eyes.

But he was strong enough to press Kim against the wall and make me feel something bordering on fear, which was enough. Kim was desperate for the thrill of pressing up against someone he’d never touched before. Jean kissed the skin beneath Kim’s ear, then down his neck. Kim felt a jolt in his belly, but it wasn’t enough.

“You can bite me.” Kim whispered, feverish for more sensation, clutching the back of Jean’s neck. Jean didn’t miss a beat, sinking teeth into the tender flesh along Kim’s throat. Kim moaned.

“Like that?” Jean already knew the answer was _yes_ , but he asked anyway. One part careful, two parts smug. His breath cooled the spots of skin coated in saliva. Kim tugged Jean’s hair at the nape of his neck in response.

“Yes. Now keep going.” Kim hissed, extending a hand to palm Jean’s crotch. The younger man’s breath hitched and he mumbled a curse before continuing to kiss the base of Kim’s neck with teeth. With each mouthful he bit down till Kim’s groans of pleasure sharpeed into pain, then released, licking the red skin. 

Harry didn’t often bite him. It unnerved him to hurt Kim, even when he asked for it. Kim was the one that did the hurting. Slapping. Biting. Scratching. Choking.

Jean pressed a strong thigh between Kim’s legs. Kim was straining in his pants. They moved to the bed.

Jean’s beard didn’t feel one bit like Harry’s when it brushed against Kim’s neck, just as Kim’s slender frame in no way resembled Harry’s as Jean crawled on top of him. Both sought absolution in the lack of similarity; both knew they would not find it.

“Do you like to be on top?” Jean asked, arms bracketing Kim’s shoulders. It was very polite of him to ask. Instead of answering, Kim threw his knee over Jean's side and flipped him over. Now prone, Jean smirked, his cheeks coloring. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Kim unbuttoned Jean’s shirt, revealing some chest hair and a musculature he hadn’t been expecting. Kim ghosted his fingers down Jean’s stomach to untuck his shirt. The muscles in Jean’s stomach twitched. Jean shimmied his arms out of the shirt. Strong arms, but still less broad than Harry’s.

“Did you ever hit him?” Jean asked as Kim sat up to pull his own shirt off. Kim’s shoulders tensed but he responds without pause.

“If he asked.”

Jean huffed. “I bet he asked a lot.” There was a tinge of bitterness in Jean’s voice. Maybe he was uncomfortable with this particular kink regarding his self-destructive ex-partner.

“Well I want that, too.” Kim didn’t quite believe him. Jean lightly slapped his own cheek. “Right here. Hard as you can.”

Kim rarely hit Harry on the face, though Harry would have preferred it often. Then Kim realized Harry might have asked Jean to hit him, too. Letting out a long, slow exhale, Kim pressed his palm against Jean’s cheek. Then he pulled back and slapped him. Jean’s mouth fell open and his eyes watered. He looked back at Kim again.

“Harder.”

Kim slapped him once more. Jeans face stung. He laughed a little.

“Shit. You’re stronger than you look.” Kim allowed himself a smug smile.

“So I’ve been told.” By Harry, even. Harry has requested a slap across the face. It took Kim a llmoment to calibrate how hard Harry wanted him to strike him. Once he finally did, the slap ringing in their ears, Harry turned his watery eyes to Kim, grinning. _Damn, Kim. You’re stronger than you look._

Kim kissed Jean, hand on his jaw to open his mouth wider. Kim could feel Jean getting hard beneath him. Jean groaned and clutched Kim’s hips, grinding into him. There was desperation in how hard they kissed, hurriedly, frantically; both men begging to feel something. Kim swiveled his hips, rutting against Jean’s. While they kissed Kim busied himself with Jean’s belt and zippers. When they stopped to pull his pants off, Jean looked at Kim, lips parted.

“Could you fuck me?” Jean's gaze was direct but the color in his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. “It’s been a while.” _I’ve missed it._

“I said I liked to be on top, didn’t I?” Kim laughed and moved off of Jean’s lap, gesturing for him to flip over. Jean removed his trousers and settled on his stomach. Leaning down, Kim bit Jean’s shoulder.

Kim considered how strange it was to have Jean here, face down, gasping into his sheets as he palmed his ass. If this were any other day Kim might have taken his time with Jean. But he was hungry, and impatient. He snatched the lube from his bedside table and spread a healthy portion on his index and middle fingers.

He pulled Jean open, slowly probing his finger inside. Jean twitched at the touch, moaning with a closed mouth as Kim pressed around the ring of muscle. Kim admired Jean’s ass, surprisingly toned and round. He never would have guessed Jean Vicqumare had a nice ass. Kim slid a finger in, pressing down to find Jean’s prostate.

“S-shit.” Jean groaned, shivering. “You don’t fuck around.” Kim just fucked into him some more, stretching, teasing.

“No, I don’t.” Kim said, feeling a little smug, slipping his second finger in. It was a tight fit; Jean swore.

“You fucked him a lot?” Jean asked, pushing his hips back into Kim in what seemed like defiance. But really he was thinking about Harry, bending Jean over the shitty tweed couch in his apartment. “He almost always fucked me- ah! Shit...”

“Sometimes I let him fuck me.” Kim replied. He was drunk on alcohol and drunk on sex. The morbidity of the dirty talk was novel enough in his inebriated state that he thought nothing of reciprocating. “If he behaved.”

Jean groaned, shivering at the thought and at Kim thrusting hard with his fingers. Harry never bothered to spend this much time fingering him. _Broad fingers, hot to the touch, all manner of profanity dripping from his liquor-wet lips._

“Hurry up and fuck me already.” Jean growled.

Kim laughed humorlessly, pulling his fingers out and making Jean whimper. He reached again into the bedside table to find a condom. He put it on with practiced swiftness, then began to lube up.

“Don’t hold back.” Jean said hoarsely, pulling up to his hands and knees. Kim didn’t respond, just lined his cock up with Jean’s ass. He had no intention of holding back. Kim slid in, just the head at first, welcoming the heat swallowing him in.

Jean let out a groan, hanging his head to the mattress, widening his hips to let Kim in. It’d been a while since he’s gotten fucked like this. The feeling of another man’s cock filling him up was something Jean had missed, though he’d be loath to admit as much. Heat crept up his neck as Kim pressed in deeper with a tight, controlled exhalation.

Jean tried not to let his mind drift back to the last time he’d been bent over and fucked, some months before Martenaise. _Harry was at Jean's place, drinking all Jean’s beer, giving him heavy-lidded looks. He’d actually propositioned Jean instead of just being drunk and handsy like usual. “Hey,Vic,” he’d grinned, sauntering up to Jean on the couch, who watched him cautiously over his beer can. “Let me fuck you?”_

_Asshole._

_But of course Jean had let him. They’d both drank too much, the apartment filling up with the smell of beer and cigarettes and sweat. Jean couldn’t help that the whole thing got his blood pumping._

_“Mmm yeah, let me get a taste of that tight little ass.” Disgusting, Jean thought, and it went straight to his cock. Harry turned him over and pulled his pants down, crouched on his knees and dove tongue first into Jean’s ass. He didn’t know he liked this before Harry. Wouldn’t ever think to ask a girlfriend to tongue his asshole._

_To make matters worse, Harry stopped to talk more shit, tell him how good he tasted, about how hard he was going to fuck him. And Jean let it happen- just let it wash all over him. The filth of it, and the flattery, too. Giving into Harry, into Harry’s charm, into Harry’s insistent touch._

_“Gonna take so much of this cock you won’t be able to walk straight.” Harry babbled, stroking himself, biting down on the flesh of Jean’s ass. “Whole precinct will see you, all fucked out.”_

_“Fucking shut up, Harrier.” Jean grunted, furious at the flush creeping from his face down to his neck._

Kim didn’t say much as he fucked into Jean, testing with a few pumps before beginning to thrust in earnest. Kim let it sensations of sex surround him, the heat of Jean’s skin and the mildly pleasurable sound of Jean’s grunts each time he fucked particularly deep. As it was he was clinging to presence, wiling himself to not confuse the now with any of the times he’d brought a stranger home for sex, purely for the purpose of getting off with another warm body present. He knew Jean. He’d be seeing Jean again. 

Kim stayed focused on performing, with the faint hope that with orgasm would come clarity of mind, a sharper enough feeling to cut through the numbing veil of grief. He tried not to think of Harry, or sex with Harry, of touching Harry. Certainly not of lying in bed, sweaty and tired, watching his big barrel chest rise and fall, a happy smile peeking out from beneath his moustache.

Jean spit a few curse words, head sinking to the bed, grabbing on to his hard, neglected dick. The wet sound of skin slapping skin, the sound of Kim’s grunts as well as Jean’s own groans of pleasure- it was a perfectly erotic soundscape. But Jean kept remembering, maybe thanks to the booze, the sort of shit Harry would say. _“Yeah, that’s it, jerk yourself off.” Harry ran his fingers through the hair on Jean’s chest, his beer gut pressing down on the small of his back, hot lips and teeth on his shoulders. “Come all over yourself, you look so good like that.”_

_“You should let me come in your ass sometime, Vic. Fuck, you’d look amazing.”_

Kim pumped harder, gripping Jean’s hips. He couldn’t know for sure but he thought Jean was close- he stroked his cock frantically and moaned. A few more decisive strokes and he came, moaning into the bedsheets, and Kim heard his strangled whisper.

“Harry-” It was barely audible. Kim flinched as if he had been burned.

Kim pulled out, removing the condom and tossing it in the bin. His chest was still heaving, sweat dripping down his neck. He didn’t look at Jean.

“Shit.” Jean struggled to sit up and catch his breath, the realization of what he’d said still in the process dawning on him. He felt the absence of Kim’s warm body. It was like being doused with cold water. “Sorry. I…” If Kim weren’t turned away he could see the guilt washing over Jean’s face. Embarrassment, with a flicker of vulnerability. He stood from the bed, reaching for Kim. “Hey, we can still-“

“It’s alright.” Kim said quickly, pulling on his trousers in the universal sign of _I’m done here._ Something about his posture made grabbing for him seem impossible, so Jean backed away. “Don’t worry about it.” Kim looked at his pack of cigarettes on his bedside table. Then he dared to look back at Jean. 

“I think I’d like to be alone, now.” Kim grabbed the pack of cigarettes, tapping it nervously and turning towards the window. “But thank you for the company.”

Jean nodded wordlessly, zipping up his pants and pulling on his shirt. He couldn’t look at Kim for more than a second at a time. The momentary release of his orgasm had already faded, the sad and sick feeling returning to the pit of his stomach. 

“Right.” Grabbing his coat, Jean moved to leave the room. “I’ll see ya around.” His voice was gruff but gentle. Jean let himself out the front door.

Once he heard the door click shut, Kim withdrew a cigarette from his pack. He lit it and took a long drag. This was his second cigarette today. His hands gently shook.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mari and Candy for helping me finish this up with your big, sad-horny brains and to my girlfriend who kindly reads all my very mean fanfiction while I watch her like a lunatic. :)
> 
> There will be a part two!


End file.
